| And the sea is calling to her: «Come alone»
|
| As she dials a number with her fingers on her phone
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| And her keys are falling from her coat
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| As I weave my fingers round her perfumed throat
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| No I can’t give her what she wants
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| I can’t give her what she really needs
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| I can’t give her what she wants
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| It’d push her away
|
| So I turn my attention to the bruise that’s on her fist
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| Feel the pulse beneath her almost perfect wrist
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| And the flames are crawling round the note she wrote
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| Flickering like fingers round the lining of her coat
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| No I can’t give her what she wants
|
| I cant give her what she really needs
|
| I can’t give her what she wants
|
| It’d push her away
|
| And I see her silhouette on every street
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| Hear the clatter of her pretty, pretty feet
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| And all that’s left is ashes of her sorry little note
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| So nobody can ever read the sentences she wrote
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| No I can’t give her what she wants
|
| I can’t give her what she really needs
|
| And I can’t give her what she wants
|
| It’d push her away
|
| Away
|
| Away
|
| Away |